


The Story Where He Stays

by eme



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: In Denial, M/M, One Shot, hinted future nick/jay, hinted relationship, i had to tone down the gay for class, it was gonna be kinda explicit, may continue this if im up for it, past daisy/jay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-14 03:50:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14762067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eme/pseuds/eme
Summary: Rewrite of chapter VIII, for a class project.Nick comes over to urge Gatsby to run. Instead, he stays.





	The Story Where He Stays

**Author's Note:**

> I have no plans to continue this, as it's just for school. (If Mrs. E is reading this- Hi, yes, it's A.U.!) It follows the initial flow of chapter VIII. Gatsby's first line is sourced from the book with some changes. The rest, however, is of my own making. Enjoy.

I couldn’t sleep all night; the feeling of powerlessness and disorder plagued my mind with dreams of road kill, Gatsby, and a distant green light. As the sun broke over the other stars, I awoke to the noise of rumbling on cobblestone. I staggered out of my bed in my disheveled state and begin to dress, loosely and clumsily. The aftermath of the nightmares affected me more than I realized. I spared a glance to my left into the grandeur of the Gatsby estate and felt the pricking of forgotten warnings. The rush of urgency flooded my mind and I felt that I had to let him know. The taxi that woke me was traversing his driveway and I descended to meet it.

Entering his property, I saw his front door still ajar. Gatsby, himself, was slumped against a table in the main hall, heavy of heart. The tiniest shift in his posture acknowledged my presence, but his eyes never left the floor.

“Nothing happened,” he said, in a slow, distant manner, “I waited, and about four o'clock she stood, staring out the window, just for a minute, and turned out the light.”

The manor never felt so large as it did in that moment. From the lack of partygoers, the lack of his desired love, or even just the lack of his own energy, it seemed the structure of his home and, by extension, life, relied on the heart of others. It was due time for Mr. Gatsby to live for himself. Or at least, for someone who could live for him too. I blinked. I had nearly forgotten the reason I had come. The crash. The Buchanan-Wilson connection. I couldn’t let Gatsby be a product of their carelessness. 

“You’ve got to leave,” I sputtered into the silence, “Your car–“

“I can’t go, old sport,” Gatsby firmly interjected, straightening up in the slightest degree, “Not without Daisy. She’s unsure, but she will come around. She just needs more time. I just know that that rough Tom fellow will push it soon.”

I didn’t think a person could be so deluded. Then again, this was the man who worked towards a distant love he didn’t have a chance with, without anything short of a miracle. A miracle that granted and teased him and just as soon left. The thought induced the strongest feelings of pity in my gut. It almost made me go easy on him. Almost.

“How much longer will you wait, then? It’s been five years, does five more sound good, or even ten? If ever?” I fumbled with my fingers as discretely as I could. It was strange being the confrontational one for maybe the first time. I was utterly failing in poise, but my words delivered upon Gatsby a flinch that was as effective as intended. There was a pause that lingered in the air, and while I knew he had soaked in that thought, I gave him the moment to ground himself. The weary, yet defiant look in his eyes encouraged me to finally conclude.

“She doesn’t love you, not anymore.” Gatsby’s eyes darted to his left, maybe not to the corner of the door behind me, but into memory. His lips pursed into a line, with less defeat and more acceptance. I wonder if all this time, under all that relentless hope, he knew this. It certainly felt as if he had ripped off some sort of nostalgic weight.

With a spurt of newfound energy, he thrust himself off his table of despair and made a path towards me. Towards reality. Stopping mere breaths away, I could take in more of his state. His golden locks fell loosely in different directions, which was a strange contrast to his usual gelled style. They fell around his sharp features in clusters and somehow endorsed his usual compassionate air. Making it more authentic and raw. He followed my eyes and ran a hand through his hair sheepishly.

“I know, I have got to…” He trailed off, having started with a bare murmur. _Go_ , I could tell him, but a part of me stilled. He already knew, and it was much more a thought for later. For a more collected Gatsby. For now, he could pull himself together and fix his hair. Or that straggled tie that’s hanging lopsided across his shoulder. His left shoulder. I brought my hand up to tug on the tie and loosen it for him. It’s met with resistance. He must’ve yanked too hard on it earlier. My fingers brushed against his dress shirt as I re-positioned to untie the knot. Gatsby hummed in approval. Just how dependent was he? I gave consistent pinches to the silk inlays of the fabric, and the material slackened in my grip. I kept my hands clenched on both sides of the tie and my knuckles pressed to his chest. At the moment I realized how smooth he felt, I flushed. The humid summer warmth must have entered through the opened door behind us. I pulled my arms away in a jerk and moved to close it. 

“Get us some drinks.” I murmured into the door, keeping my eyes on the reflection in the lock, as my fingers trailed down the hinges. I glanced behind me. He was back to his old self, nonchalant and subtly amused. A part of me was relieved. Another knew that this couldn’t be it for long. Gatsby would need more encouragement to push past his Daisy obsession. That responsibility fell onto me as the only true friend he had. I didn’t know if I had it in me, really. I wasn’t the most consistent or loyal. My eyes drift down to his nicely fitted trousers, then flicked to his calloused hands, his sharp jaw, and soft eyes. I needed a drink. _We_ needed a drink.

__

“Alright, old sport.” He quirked an eyebrow at my near gawking, and a gentle grin filled his features. He looked good, as messy as he was at the moment. And he knew it. I broke away from his eyes first and waited until he left the room before I released the breath I didn't know I was holding. I ran a tense hand across the back of my neck and roamed, looking for an appropriate place to sit down. The thought of going in his room alone gave me a strange feeling, so I settled for the rouge couch in the open living space. 

__

Gatsby returned with two dainty wine glasses in one hand and in another, a generously curved bottle of some champagne. There was a splash of rose and a sparkle of carbonation as he poured our drinks. Handing over mine first, he let our fingers linger for longer than necessary. The resulting fuzzy feeling sent a shiver down my back. My jaw set as I tried not to pull away too suddenly. His eyes flickered as if debating something, then shook it off. He plopped down beside me with his glass carelessly held with two fingers. I took a sip as I watched him. In a mere second, I’ve let it truly settle in that we were alone. There was no need to hold back. I let my eyes wander upon his form freely as I savored the taste of liquor in my mouth. _Exquisite._

__

**Author's Note:**

> [George Wilson still received the tip off of who owned the yellow car. However, when he arrived gun in hand, he interpreted the scene between Nick and Gatsby the “wrong way”. Nick woke first from the noise. He attempted to do damage control and explain the situation, but Wilson held onto the idea that saved Gatsby’s life from his gun. Unfortunately, Wilson still killed himself. (In his own home.)]


End file.
